The Posh Boy Loves The Dominatrix
by OptimisticLady
Summary: In the end, it really was a massive cliché, wasn't it? SPOILERS FOR THE LYING DETECTIVE. Sherlock/Irene.


**SPOILERS for The Lying Detective. Look away now if you've not watched it!**

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To Sherlock Holmes, she will always be The Woman.

Despite the fact he had been insistent that love was a dangerous disadvantage, that caring in itself was also a disadvantage, Sherlock had found himself prone to some sort of attraction to one Irene Adler.

She was the only woman – as of yet – to have him almost outwitted. _Almost_ being the key word, considering how she had so obviously worn her heart on her sleeve. A slip up of sorts, her doing that. Although he couldn't deny that she had been incredibly clever and had given him a good game up until that point.

Oh, and how he _craved_ another game with her.

The poise and grace with which she had lost that initial game also contributed to Sherlock considering her a worthy opponent. Even though their game had been a battle of wits and upper hands, it had all boiled down to chemistry in the end; sexuality, attraction, and love. Before that point, Sherlock had been perfectly fine with only understanding the chemistry behind it all, but soon enough he found himself wanting to know more – not in the academic sense.

Of course, that wish had been granted after he had saved her life in Karachi. There had been no need for him to even save her life in the first place, but he had _wanted_ to do that. He had wanted to make sure she was safe. As safe as she could get, for she led a life that was perhaps more chaotic than his own. All it took was one night of pure passion and ecstasy and him crying out her name in euphoria to make him realise that maybe – just maybe – he was a human being with emotions after all.

So over the course of three years, Sherlock began to crave Irene like he would drugs.

There was a special place for her in his mind palace, a room in which he could go to if he needed some relaxation and a distraction from the drugs. Sherlock had opted against physically pleasuring himself since leaving university – he was no longer an adolescent with raging hormones – and threw himself into his work. Such frivolities were locked away in the basement of his mind palace, never to be see again. Yet the presence of Irene Adler in his life had given him some cause to want to pleasure himself again.

If he didn't have the stimulation of a case, the nicotine from cigarettes, nor the highs from cocaine, Sherlock would find himself thinking of the woman in a myriad of compromising situations with him. Nobody would be the wiser to what he did in his spare time, and they were never going to be privy to his intimate thoughts – his _only_ intimate thoughts. She was the only one who could ever complete that part of him.

Her text alert gave him some sort of comfort. He'd hear from her once a year on his birthday, but he would never reply. To Sherlock it was obvious that she knew he never would. He never text back – she was the one person who he couldn't. But once a year, that text alert let him know that she was still alive and safe, somewhere out there in the world.

The third year running of it was where it got interesting.

John Watson had yelled at him, told him to text her back. Sherlock debated it for a second, but he was still trying to get clean. He was still being babysat just so he didn't go completely off the rails again. So they went out for cake together in an effort to celebrate his birthday, and it was only when it was Molly's turn in the evening that Sherlock glanced over the actual text itself again.

 _Happy birthday, Mr Holmes. x_

Sherlock pursed his lips, flashes of her beautiful face running through his mind – memories or fantasies, who knew at this point? – and he realised that perhaps after all these years, feeling that comfort whenever she text him, hearing that moan of hers echo from his phone, remembering how much fun he had outwitting her and remembering their game as a whole... he realised that perhaps he could entertain the idea of being in love with Irene Adler.

She would, as John had said, complete him. It was the only part of him that was missing – the jigsaw puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes was missing a small amount of love, a small amount of affection. He knew deep down – _very_ deep down – that he could even give all that (and maybe more) back to her.

When Molly went to go and make a cup of tea, Sherlock typed out a response.

He typed out the one response that would have Irene Adler faking a passport to get back into the country if she had to.

He typed out the one response that would have Irene Adler running to Baker Street in a matter of ten minutes if she were still in London.

He typed out the one response that he knew Irene Adler would answer to.

 _Let's have dinner.  
_ _-SH_

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 **The Lying Detective was incredible, and had me feeling all sorts of things about Adlock as well.**

 **Comment?  
**

 **-OL.**


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